Cold Nose, Warm Heart Just Aren’t Enough for Berkeley

You think of a police dog and what comes to mind? Big, snarly. Lots of attitude and teeth. Mean.

Now think of Berkeley, the place that took the ‘60s seriously. Some people still call it Berserkeley. It’s right next to Oakland, but worlds apart.

Next try to think about Berkeley and a police dog together . Sort of like Rambo on a macrobiotic diet. I know, it’s tough.

But bear with me. This is part of a serious problem in the annals of New Age governance. Who knows? It may be what Irvine will have to contend with next.

The Berkeley of the ‘90s needed a police dog with a nose for dope, not to sniff out residents’ personal marijuana stashes-which legally, are still off-limits to police--but crack cocaine, the bane of the city’s poor neighborhoods.

No animal even remotely reminiscent of the attack dogs unleashed on the anti-war and civil rights demonstrators of the ‘60s and ‘70s would do.

Surely one can understand why. Perhaps, mused members of the City Council, the perfect beagle could be found.

The beagles, however, never did pan out. But let me tell you about Stride.

Stride, an English cocker spaniel, black with a bib of white on his chest, is a certified dope dog. He’s also from Orange County, an unfortunate political association that the Berkeley City Council said it was willing to overlook. The council was elated just to know that such a kinder, gentler dope dog exists.

Stride made his appearance before the council late last year. He plopped right there on the chamber floor, awaiting his turn. Cameras clicked, lights flashed. Then Stride sniffed out the crack hidden behind the dais in the council chambers without a hitch. Boffo. The cops, it seemed, were high on him too.

But there was something else about this dog, something so Berkeley-esque. The council members adored his style, his elan, his canine savior faire . Stride’s eyes were brown, soulful, liquid. The stubby tail started thumping and the body shimmied in sync.

“He was just perfect,” Berkeley Mayor Loni Hancock gushed at the time. She said the city might hire him as early as that day.

OK, fast forward to reality. This is after Berkeley officials have refused to return any of my calls about Stride. It’s this Tuesday morning, at Cabrillo Park in the city of Orange.

Fred Kjorlien and I are sitting in the cab of his pickup truck, the big kind, not one of those little Japanese wannabees.

Fred is a big kind himself. Forty-eight years old, burly, full gray beard, hair slicked back, cool, steely blue eyes, usually a cigarette between his fingers. He’s a straight talker, articulate. He’s been Stride’s trainer and owner since the dog was a pup.

Fred’s an independent type, divorced with two kids. Stride, who works free-lance for $125 an hour, is how Fred pays the rent.

So Fred is telling me that it really doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t want to make too big a deal about it, even though nobody in Berkeley has ever given him a reason for rejecting Stride, the dog he loves.

Stride, meanwhile, is in the back of the truck, in his cage. I met him a moment earlier, when he gave me lots of kisses. Soon he will demonstrate his dope-finding skills. Fred says “find it,” and within minutes Stride discovers a rag stuffed next to the truck’s gas tank that bears the scent of some illicit stuff.

Stride seems unflappable, and when I take the rag from his mouth, he doesn’t even growl. Fred says that’s normal, that the dog loves everybody. Never known to hold a grudge.

“He’d leave with you in a heartbeat, as long as he thought I wasn’t looking,” he says.

But I remind Fred about what I had read in the Bay Area press. Berkeley’s assistant city manager, Weldon Rucker, said Stride was rejected because he was too stuck on Fred. Berkeley went with Pepper, a local Labrador, even though he didn’t have Stride’s finesse.

And Rucker was quoted as citing other reasons for the switch as well. Stride was going for $10,000, while Pepper was half of that. And ageism--tsk, tsk--was present, too. Stride turned 5 on Saturday, while Pepper’s not even 2.

“It’s like buying a new car rather than a used car,” Rucker opined to the San Francisco Chronicle.

Fred says he has no idea where the deal really went wrong, although he brings up something else that cops think but hardly ever say out loud.

Stride is not a macho dog. A drug-sniffing Labrador--cops feel OK about that. But when’s the last time you saw a narcotics team with a little dog in tow? It just doesn’t fit with the show.

And here’s what a German trainer said about Stride in his 1987 certification report: “His temperament is a little sensitive with a hardness level of under-medium.”

What that means, in other words, is that Stride is a soft touch. He doesn’t snarl or bite, and he’s even trained not to bark.

“What we are dealing with is ignorance,” Fred says. “He is not a stereotypical dog. . . . I’ll put him up against any dope dog in the world.”

So with all this, I ask Fred, why would you want to let Stride go?

Well, Fred hems for a bit, he really didn’t. Oh, sure, he says, if he could have made $10,000, he would have taken it and then started training another dog, maybe to sell.

What Fred says he really wanted to do was make a point. English cocker spaniels, he says, make great dope dogs, too.

Macho? Fred says. What’s so great about that?

Stride’s a professional, with boundless enthusiasm for his work. He loves people and he’s a great tool.

And besides, Fred stresses, Stride is an English cocker spaniel, not the American kind. Those kind are worthless, he says, and sissies, too.

Fred takes another drag on his cigarette and then he smiles. Stride’s tongue is flopped out and he seems to be hanging on Fred’s every word.

A man and his dog. Out having a good time.

Dianne Klein’s column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Klein by writing to her at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7406.